Wizard's Daughter (Sherbrooke Brides 10)

I dream of strength and fevered might

I dream I'm not alone again

But I know of his death and her grievous sin.

He looked up at her. Neither said a word. He knew she also realized she was the little girl. Rosalind whispered, "Then what does he write?"

A child's voice, sweet and true, it called forth feelings I hadn't known were in me, feelings to break my heart. But those strange words—what did they mean? What male died? What female's grievous sin?

... She spoke again; this time her words rang clear in my brain: I am your debt.

She said slowly, "I don't suppose we can escape it now. I was the little girl and whoever, whatever it was who de­manded Captain Jared pay this debt—whatever this debt is—I'm it."

37

They gathered up the remains of their picnic and rode silently back to Wyverly. Nicholas felt the fear in her, just as he felt it in his own gut. He didn't like it and sought to dis­tract her. He spoke of their tenant farmers and the repairs he was making on their cottages, the new equipment he'd pro­vided for their fields. He was nearly hoarse from talking so much when at last they were sitting again in the library, both of them looking over at the earl's chair. It remained perfectly still, and hopefully vacant.

Rosalind said, "I wonder where our ghost goes when he's not in this room."

"Don't be afraid," he said abruptly.

"That isn't possible," Rosalind said. "I've never felt such fear, not since I was eight years old, woke up to hear I'd nearly died, and couldn't remember who I was. Worse yet, I still don't know who I am. I only know I am a debt." She slammed her fist on the chair arm. "What bloody debt?"

Suddenly, one of Captain Jared's songs was clear in her mind. She recited the verses slowly aloud.

At last the girl comes home A girl who never belonged To her is owed the debt Well met, my lad, well met.

The little girl nearly died The monster nearly won The debt was paid by another But the race must still be run.

How could she remember the words so clearly, so easily? She looked up to see Nicholas studying her, his fingers steepled.

"Yes," he said, "I remember them as well. It all began when a being whose identity we don't know, whose identity Captain Jared never learned either, a being who saved his life, took him to this unidentified place, told him he had to pay this debt because, as this being told him, I have sworn not to meddle. It is a curse that I must obey my own word!"

"What being would promise not to meddle, Nicholas? That is what a magic being does—it meddles, it plays, or it devastates. And I am the debt, yes, I will accept that though I was also seemingly the debt over two hundred years ago, the debt Captain Jared was to have paid, and how can that be? Who was he to pay a magic debt?

"I don't know anything of a debt, I don't even know who I am. All I know is that wretched song. It's always been in­side me, you know it was the first thing out of my mouth when I finally began to speak after Uncle Ryder brought me home.

"I don't know who the monster is in the song. Obviously it was Uncle Ryder who saved me. The race must still be run . So it's still there, the monster, the mystery, the need to pay the debt, whatever it is.

"And then after you came, we found Sarimund's book, the Rules of the Pale . Or rather Grayson did. What does that wretched book have to do with anything? Why can I read it and not you or Grayson? Who cares about this red Lasis who kills the Tibers in fire pits? None of this makes any bloody sense and I'll tell you, Nicholas, I'm very sick of all of it."

She jumped to her feet, grabbed a pillow, and threw it at the old earl's chair. The very heavy chair tilted a bit, then settled again.

"Oh, go away, you miserable old fright! I didn't strike the chair hard enough to make it move. I am a normal female person now, not some sort of planted dream from hundreds of years ago. Am I a wizard's debt, for God's sake? A wizard who's sworn not to meddle?"

The chair tilted again, then settled.

They both stared at it. Rosalind growled deep in her throat and threw the other pillow at Nicholas. He snatched it out of the air six inches from his face. "Sit down, sweetheart. It's time—" His brain closed down a moment. No, he had to say this, he had to tell her the truth now. No choice.

"Time for what?"

"It's time I was completely honest with you. It's time I told you who I am and what I know of this."

Something was very wrong here, and she knew she really didn't want to know. But there was no hope for it. Her heart jumped, then begin to thud, slow hard strokes. She sat beside him and clutched his arm. She said, her mouth so dry she could barely form the words, "What do you mean, who I am? You actually know something? Tell me who you really are. Tell me what is going on, Nicholas."

He took her hand in his began stroking her long fingers. He stared into the empty fireplace as he said, "I was eleven years old when I first dreamed of you. You were a little girl, skinny, your glorious red hair in braids, the line of freckles scattered across your nose. You had the sweetest face. Then you sang your song to me. After you'd sung, you fell silent and looked at me, sad and empty, and you said, I am your debt.

"I finally told my grandfather about the dream after I'd dreamed it a half dozen times. Always the same, always your face, your voice, that haunting sad song.